Trauma Plan (25 page)

“And right about the time he went into hospice—the same month—Abby was murdered,” Jack went on. “It wasn’t like we were in love, even. I was twenty;
love
wasn’t in my vocabulary. But she’d been there for me while Dad was sick. Gone to the hospital—watched me punch walls afterward. She was a really good person. With more faith than anyone I’d met. I couldn’t make sense of why she had to die. All I knew was that prayers didn’t help—don’t help.”

Riley cleared her throat. “All that . . . made you give up on God.”

Jack frowned. “I think it’s more that he gave up on me. I’m the first to admit there are a whole lot of valid reasons for that. But—” he took a slow breath—“I’m out of coffee, and . . .”

“And I’ve intruded.” Riley reached across the table, touched his hand. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

“No problem,” he said, visibly relaxing. The toffee eyes warmed. “Chaplain thing. You can’t help it.” A smile tugged at his lips. “But maybe I can help you now.”

“What do you mean?” Riley tried to pretend that his thumb brushing the back of her hand wasn’t making her foolishly giddy.

“I had a phone call from the nursing supervisor at Alamo Grace. She was returning my call about clinic volunteers. We’re pretty short on help.”

“Yes.” Riley nodded, feeling a quick stab of guilt about going to the clinic this morning to change her work schedule.

“And,” Jack continued, “I took the opportunity to tell her that I’m drafting a recommendation for you. For that triage position.”

Riley’s mouth sagged open. “You did—you are?”

“I haven’t sent it yet. I know your assessment skills are sharp and I’ve already seen you handle at least a couple of challenging cases, but I should observe you at least another shift. We’ll be working together tomorrow . . . unless there’s been a schedule change?”

“No,” Riley said, her heart wedging into her throat. “No change. Written in stone—I’m there.”

“Good.” He leaned back, let go of her hand. “And I thought I’d check with Kate and see if she can help us out for a few hours next week. You think she might?”

“I’m not sure,” Riley said, still breathless about the offer of a recommendation. “Give her a call or stop by the ER. She’s working today.”

* * *

“No! No way I’m taking the blame,” the big woman blustered, her breath pungent with alcohol fumes. She glared down at Kate, swayed, and planted a hand on the nurses’ desk to steady herself. “I didn’t do nothin’ to that child. He’s not mine; I explained that already. He’s my sister’s foster kid. I told her I was having a little Fiesta party last night and wouldn’t be in any kind of condition to watch one of her rug rats today. But she dumps him off anyway.” The woman glanced toward the three-year-old in the resuscitation room, eyes widening. “Why did they shove that nasty tube down his throat?”

Because you’re an irresponsible idiot.
“We needed to rinse his stomach. His heart rate is too fast. And that twitching you saw . . .” Kate struggled to keep her tone under control. The morning had been bad enough without getting punched too. “It could mean that in addition to sips of tequila from those paper cups the medics found in your apartment, he may have gotten hold of some—”

“Drugs?” The woman took a step toward Kate, narrowing her eyes. “Are you standing there accusin’ me of something like that?”

“I’m explaining that for this boy’s safety we have to consider all possibilities. Of course, the blood and urine samples will show—”

“Unh-uh. No way am I goin’ down for something like that!” A fine spray of spittle escaped the woman’s lips. She jabbed her finger, brushing the snaps on Kate’s scrub jacket. “You are
not
blaming this on me, you skinny little—” She caught sight of an officer at the nurses’ desk and bit back the obscenity. Only one of a number she’d spat at Kate during the past thirty minutes. “You called the cops?”

“Yes,” Kate answered, feeling the officer’s presence like Kevlar body armor. “And DFPS—child protective services.”
Poke that finger at me again and I’ll find Rambo, too.
“It’s required by law.” Almost on cue, the officer walked toward them, and Kate took the opportunity to go back into the exam room.

“Nearly finished with the charcoal slurry,” her staff nurse, Linda, reported. “I saw some white fragments when I washed out his stomach—but mostly what I suspect was Pop-Tarts. So maybe his tummy was full enough not to absorb the entire drug dose. What do you bet someone at the party got sloppy and dropped some meth on the floor?” She depressed the plunger of a big syringe, pushing the charcoal through tubing that led from the boy’s mouth to his stomach. An ER tech, wearing a guitar-print surgical cap, steadied the boy’s head.

“Could be.” Kate glanced at the boy’s pale face. The blue of his eyes was only a narrow rim around dark, dilated pupils. Her heart tugged.
Was he taken away from his family . . . abandoned by his mother?
Guilt prodded as effectively as the drunken woman’s finger.

“You can see that his oxygen sats are great. And his heart rate’s down to 120,” Linda continued, glancing through her protective face shield toward the monitor. “Bless his soul, he’s still shakin’ like a little leaf.” She smiled tenderly down at the child wrapped in a Papoose body restraint. “Aren’t you, Daniel?”

“The PD is talking with the aunt.” Kate frowned. “I mean the foster mother’s sister. She made that pretty clear.”

The tech sighed. “My cousin and her husband have foster kids; you’ve never seen finer folks. I know this sort of thing happens, but . . .” His brows puckered. “Speakin’ of things going south, did you get your scratches cleaned up?”

“Soap, water, bacitracin—and an incident report.” Kate had been clawed on the arm by an agitated dementia patient even before she’d had a chance to pour her first cup of hospital coffee. It had foreshadowed her day. “Between that and our foul-mouthed Fiesta party hostess, I’m a shoo-in for Most Unappreciated Nurse.”

The tech smiled. “I appreciate you. Especially if you take over here for a few minutes while I check on that patient in X-ray.”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” Linda pushed the last of the charcoal through the tubing. “I’m about ready to take this out.”

Kate gloved and masked, pulled the suction catheter close, then bent down and cradled the boy’s head between her hands. His hair was silky soft, cheeks wet with tears. “We’re trying to help you, honey.” She brushed a thumb across his skin.
Did my son go into foster care? Was he loved, or . . . ?

“Here we go, little man,” Linda cautioned. “Taking the tube away. One, two, three.”

She pulled the tubing as the boy gagged and Kate manned the suction. “Great. All done.” Linda watched as Kate wiped Daniel’s face gently with a damp cloth. “I saw Baby Girl Doe’s grandparents down in the NICU this morning. At least there’s something hopeful going on around here.”

Kate stripped off her gloves, battling a growing ache in her chest. “I’m going to find that cup of coffee I never got.”

“Put some of that hot cocoa mix in it. Chocolate endorphins. As far as I’m concerned, that’ll fix whatever ails a person.”

“Right.” Kate summoned a halfhearted smile as she left the room.

Hopeful?
A belly full of Pop-Tarts protecting a boy from amphetamine poisoning; a demented, lonely woman terrified enough to scratch her nurse; and a teenager dying in the ICU, leaving her premature infant motherless. Where was the hope in any of that? It was about as hopeful as Kate ever getting her boxes packed . . . or finally getting her life together.

She hugged her arms around herself as she walked past the nurses’ desk. Her only real hope was that someone had made fresh coffee. She’d drink it black. And the entire carton of cocoa mix couldn’t dredge up enough endorphins to fix—

“Kate, hold up.”

She turned.

“Look what came for you.” The ward clerk peered from behind the huge vase of flowers in her hands. Roses—at least two dozen blooms—yellow, bubble-gum pink, and orange, in clouds of baby’s breath and purple heather. With little decorated eggs on sticks and a giant rainbow-bright bow of shimmering metallic ribbons. “This is what I’d call Fiesta in a vase.”

Kate was stunned. “For me?”

“Must be.” The ward clerk’s cheeks dimpled. “The envelope says ‘California Kate.’”

20

The door to the nurses’ lounge had no lock, and Kate was fairly sure barricading it with chairs would violate safety code. Which meant there was no guarantee of privacy while she waited for her face to stop flaming and devised a plan to get the massive vase of flowers out of the ER.

She’d seen less conspicuous displays around the necks of Derby winners. Within scant but mortifying moments, the outrageous bouquet had inspired a feeding frenzy among the staff, rivaled only by the arrival of pharmaceutical reps with boxes of hot pizza. There was a chorus of envious sighs, followed by wild speculation and comments. Even the finger-jabbing woman—moments from criminal arrest—felt obliged to speak up:
“Someone sent her flowers? Now there’s a serious lack of taste.”

Kate groaned. Then, holding her breath, she reread the handwritten florist’s card.

Meeting you was the best medicine. Please let me reward your kindness. Griff.

He’d included his phone numbers, cell and home.

Griff Payton. The patient who flirted with Kate in triage yesterday, offered to buy her coffee . . . build her a house. Tall, great-looking, funny. A patient who’d refused an injection of an anti-inflammatory medication for his back pain because he was squeamish about needles. Or because . . . Kate’s stomach sank as she recalled the ER physician’s concern—nothing he could confirm, but an educated hunch that Griff had refused the shot because he wanted a prescription for narcotics.

Great. Perfect. So true to form.
Kate squeezed her eyes shut and leaned against the lounge wall, feeling a bitter laugh rise in her throat. Not once in her life had her instincts about relationships been right. Or even healthy. Why should it be any different now? A change of geography didn’t cure flaws like that.

What would Riley say if she saw the flowers? Would she care that Griff had a connection to the proposed condo project? Riley hadn’t made any comment one way or the other about the future of Jack’s clinic or her feelings about The Bluffs’ complaints. She certainly hadn’t taken sides; she’d only taken the opportunity to practice her skills by volunteering at the clinic. Completely understandable.

Kate flicked her fingernail against the florist card. Riley would probably have plenty to say about the flowers. In psychobabble chaplainspeak, of course.
“How does that make you feel?”
And if Kate were honest, how would she answer that? Embarrassed? Bothered? Flattered? . . . Intrigued by the risk? Probably.

Which only proved what she knew about herself: bad instincts.

But Kate knew that if asked directly about Griff Payton, Riley would have no problem expressing an opinion. After all, she hadn’t had any qualms telling Kate exactly what she thought of Jack Travis. Riley might be using Jack’s clinic as a means to an end, but she didn’t like him one bit.

* * *

Jack glanced into the hallway that led to the kitchen, where a tinkling of ice confirmed that Riley was fixing the tea. “Your neighbor looked a little concerned,” he said, raising his voice so she could hear. “Are you sure there’s no problem with parking in your driveway?”

There was a soft laugh. “Wilma is my guardian angel. And your Hummer probably makes the other cars look like Tonka toys, but it’s fine there.”

And is it fine that I’m here?

Jack was surprised that Riley had invited him in. She’d planned to return to the clinic and call for a ride from there, but he’d insisted on driving her home. She’d been unusually quiet the whole way. Still flustered about his offer to write a recommendation for her, he guessed.
And maybe wondering if I want something in return?
Was Riley thinking that? Jack acknowledged the guilty truth that there was a certain amount of mutual back-scratching in their working relationship.

A second possibility for Riley’s reticence stopped Jack cold. Did Riley think he was expecting something more? She was a beautiful and desirable woman. Did she think he’d try to take advantage—?

“Here we go,” she said, carrying two ice-filled glasses. “I decided against sweet tea, considering the amount of sugar we’ve managed to consume this morning. I’m usually careful about that.”

And now you’re being careful about me.

“Thanks,” he said, taking the glass and feeling suddenly awkward. He’d drink the tea and get out of here. There would be another time to approach her about coming to the city council meeting. In no way did he want to make Riley uncomfortable. She’d gone out of her way to help him, empathized to a degree he’d never thought possible. Especially since they obviously had so little in common.

His gaze swept the warm, inviting, and tastefully decorated living room. Then came to rest on a Bible atop a glass coffee table. Proof of their differences.